


This Is How Monsters Are Made

by overholt_eightyfive



Category: gonewildaudio - Fandom, r/gonewildaudio
Genre: 18+ ONLY, F/M, Smut, r/gonewildaudio - Freeform, script offer
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-20
Updated: 2020-12-20
Packaged: 2021-03-11 04:02:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,373
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28188900
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/overholt_eightyfive/pseuds/overholt_eightyfive
Summary: [F4M] [Script Offer] This Is How Monsters Are Made [College Crushes] [Unrequited Attraction][Bathroom Blow-Job][Big Cock Worship][Shame][Cumshot][Thigh-Grinding][Surprise Recording] therefore [Rape] [Vengeance][Cold Water Gets the Cum Out][Rice Will Not Fix Your Phone] [Slow Burn][Narrative]
Kudos: 2





	This Is How Monsters Are Made

**Author's Note:**

> Performance Notes: Is this a year later? Five years? Ten? Play it however you'd like. Just give her her moment of awesome, in the end, because goddammit, she's earned SOMETHING.
> 
> Author's Notes: This is dark and heavy and has a “happy” ending by the skin of my teeth. This was originally inspired by several sources: a couple of scripts that I loved from the other night cavorted around in my brain and the first draft of this popped out in forty-five minutes.
> 
> I then spent the next several HOURS agonizing over the incredibly horrible ending for our hero. You'll know exactly where the original ending was.
> 
> I don't like easy answers, easy solutions or easy endings, not if I want my protagonists to prove their worth. On my second or third pass of line clean-up, she said exactly what I needed to hear to get an ending I'm not going to agonize over.
> 
> As always, a fantasy of adults, for adults.

\---START---

I should have taken the hint, end of Freshman year at university. 

When I ran out, handed you that letter it took three months to screw up the courage to write. 

I watched you read it, half a block away. 

Then, you looked back towards me. 

Standing there. 

Nervous. 

Clutching my bag to my chest. 

Then, you turned to your friends and handed my letter to them as you continued on your way. 

I felt my face burn, my eyes prickle with tears as they took turns laughing and reciting my words, cruelly, maliciously at me, until I ran back into the building, to hide in a bathroom stall and sob until I had nothing left in me. 

You weren't one of the most popular guys in our major, but you ran in their clique. 

I was young enough to delude myself as to why I had a crush on you. 

Telling myself that you had the cutest smile. 

The funniest laugh. 

That you were intelligent * enough, * charming * enough. *

No. 

It was the glimpse of your cock one afternoon when one of your friends pantsed you in the quad that fired up my imagination. 

My lust.

Huge, even soft. 

An impressive heft as it swayed as you yelled and pulled your pants back on. 

Beautiful in its shape.

Burned into my brain.

I didn't know it, but I built an idea of a person around a cock. 

And that idea sure made it easier to ignore the actuality I dealt with.

You'd offered a half-hearted apology earlier in our Sophomore year. 

Flustered and confused and just relieved to have you talk to me again, I quickly forgave you. 

“No big deal,” I said. “Just something silly.”

Pretending that I didn't spend that summer, utterly gutted back at home, unable to talk to anyone about my utter humiliation.

You started spending time with me as I offered to help you study, to tutor you with the more taxing of our shared classes. 

I always had a head for numbers and I quickly found out that was not something we shared.

I was finding out how much we didn't share. 

But, I'm clever. 

I learn fast, pick up things fast. 

I dressed up whenever I knew we would have classes together. 

I figured out which outfits made your eyes linger on my body longer. 

I tried different perfumes. 

Different hairstyles. 

Glasses? 

Contacts?

I laughed at your jokes.

I forced myself to learn about football and baseball. 

Attended games, hoping to bump into you. 

Attended keggers and frat parties.

Or, at least I tried. 

But, it became obvious that our priorities were completely different.

I had a scholarship I needed to keep. 

You didn't. 

Most days, I waited for messages from you – at first hoping that they wouldn't be about class, then settling for anything, anything at all from you.

Even if you were goofing off during our tutoring sessions. 

Even if you wanted to just skip out on assignments and found me incredibly eager to do them for you.

I tried to warn you. 

But, you didn't care to listen to me when I disagreed with you. 

So, I stopped. 

Just so you would keep talking to me. 

I should have known something was wrong, though, after our midterm grades had been posted.

Predictably, I had done well.

Predictably, you hadn't. 

You ghosted me for a week, barely acknowledging me in class or in the hallway or at the Friday night game. 

I had sent you a few messages, just three, spaced out over the course of as many days. 

I offered my condolences. 

Lied, said that it had been a notoriously difficult exam and that maybe the professor might grade on a curve.

I offered you support. 

Told you we could just make sure you studied harder for the final. 

I offered you my apologies. 

For being shit as a tutor, for not being able to help you learn the material better.

My stomach was in knots. Until your reply finally came through. 

“Meet me in Traff Hall. West Wing. Next to the bathrooms. Twenty minutes.”

I practically flew across campus. 

I didn't think, wasn't thinking about anything other than how happy I was to hear from you again.

You were leaning against the wall, next to the boy's bathroom. 

You regarded me, much the same way you did that last day of Freshman year.

I smiled at you. 

Started to ask what was going on. 

You asked me if I still meant what I'd written to you, last year. 

If I was still interested. 

I couldn't find the words. 

I just nodded. 

You peeled yourself off of the wall, and without another word, pushed open the bathroom door. 

Walked inside. 

Held it open for me.

The linoleum walls echoed as I shuffled in, my palms sweaty. 

My heart racing. 

The harsh cleaning solution barely masked the smell of sharp urine that permeated the stalls. 

We walked down to the last one. 

You beckoned me inside. 

Told me to sit down on the toilet. 

You stood in front of me, hands in your pockets.

“Show me,” you said.

I hesitated. 

Beyond a few stolen kisses with two boys from back home in high school, I'd never done anything like this with someone. 

I looked up at you, frozen.

“Show me,” you said again, softer this time. “Just between the two of us. Show me. I won't touch you. I won't tell you what to do. Just show me.”

I looked back down. 

And, I could see that beautiful cock swell in your jeans, becoming trapped against your thigh. 

I reached for it, with one, tentative hand.

The way your breath caught as I squeezed, made my stomach clench. 

My pussy wet. 

I had fantasized about this, about giving you head, even during that heartbroken summer. 

Watched porn. 

Practiced on my sole dildo, the one that I had ordered off of Amazon and prayed that the box would be plain and brown so as to not tip off my roommates.

I licked my lips. 

I felt my mouth water – in lust, in preparation, I wasn't sure. 

I didn't care.

I unbuckled your belt, unbuttoned your pants, pulled down your zipper. 

You brought one hand behind your back, and the other braced against the wall. 

I grabbed your pants. 

Yanked them down, quickly. 

Your cock sprang up, almost comically. 

Heavily. 

I stared at it a moment, then looked up at you, as if to question if it was real.

The smirk on your face told me this was not the first time you'd seen that look. 

“Show me,” you said.

I took you, with both hands. 

Not to jack you off, not yet. 

But, just to marvel at your size, your girth. 

I squeezed and couldn't stop that breathless giggle.

“Holy. Shit,” I said. 

You nodded, then cleared your throat.

“Show me,” you said. 

Blowjobs are... quite represented in our media, aren't they? 

I suffered no lack of inspiration to draw from. 

I looked up at you, then spat on your cock, a thick glob of saliva that I quickly followed up with another. 

I used my hands to start to jack you off, rotating my wrists to slick your skin wet. 

I smiled at you, hoping to look wicked, confident, sexy. 

My heart hammered in my ears and I had to squeeze my knees together to keep from shaking.

My thighs pressing together dug my jeans, my panties tightly against my pussy. 

When I took you into my mouth, my jaw popped. 

I moaned on you to muffle my surprise at the salt and musk of your taste. 

“Shh,” you said. “Have to keep it quiet. Can't let anyone know we're here.”

I nodded and used that momentum to bob my head on your cock. 

I looked up at you as I took as much of you into my mouth as I could.

The fact that both of my hands didn't meet my lips terrified and thrilled me.

I salivated.

I can't remember if I meant to do that. 

“Keep... keep your eyes down,” you whispered. “I like it when you're not looking up at me.”

I didn't question it as I swirled my tongue against the underside of your shaft. Just closed my eyes, basking in your taste. 

Your weight. 

Your attention.

I squirmed on that cold toilet seat, rubbing my thighs together. 

It was hard to keep my moans low, but I tried, how I tried. 

“Are you horny, baby?” you asked. “Does sucking... my big fat cock... make you horny?”

I began to pull away, nodding and gasping as I start to answer, but you grabbed the back of my head with one hand, freezing me in place. 

“Don't * look * at me,” you said. “Just say it. Just say, 'sucking your big fat cock makes me horny.' Go on.”

I wanted you to like me. 

I wanted you to like me so bad. 

I wanted your cock to crave me as much as I'd craved it. 

And, sucking your big fat cock made me horny.

I pulled back enough to release you from my mouth, before nuzzling your cock against my cheek, as I placed firm kisses down your shaft.

“Sucking your big fat cock makes me horny,” I whispered.

My hand stroked, vigorously, the flat of my thumb rubbing against the underside of your head. 

Your voice came out higher, strained.

“Louder,” you moaned. “Just a little. Louder.”

“Sucking your big fat cock makes me horny,” I said more firmly, as I took your swollen, slick head in my hand and rolled my wrist. 

Your breath began to catch, coming in shallower gasps.

I smiled a little, to myself. 

I'm clever, remember?

I learn things fast. 

I pick them up fast.

“*Thinking * about your big fat cock makes me horny.” 

Your hips shuddered, trembling. 

I think you were trying to remember how to thrust them forward, but your sensitive head was getting * almost * too much stimulation.

“And, * fucking* your big fat cock,” I said as I started to look up at you, “Is going to make me * cum.*”

I wanted you to see the desire in my eyes. 

I wanted to see your lust for me in yours.

Instead, my eyes locked with the phone in your hand, the lens trained on my face, as you came, in thick spurts that covered my hand, got on my shoulder, my hair, my jeans. 

I was frozen, in shock as you pulled away, laughing breathlessly. 

Cruelly.

At me.

Once again.

“Holy shit,” you said. “Holy shit. You... you fucking * slut.* Holy shit.”

You backpeddled, on shaking legs, out of the stall, looking down at your phone as you hit “stop.” 

My hand closing into a fist as you pulled your cock away. 

It was reflex. 

My mind was a blank. 

No words bubbled up. 

Just the dark chasm of feelings without articulation. 

“This makes up for the grade on my midterm,” you said. “Not so fucking smart now, are you?” 

You stuff yourself back into your pants, your eyes, your mouth, cruel.

“Gotta say, this has got to be the prettiest I've ever seen you,” you said. “Too bad I didn't get more on your face.”

Your cum was cooling quickly in my hand. 

Hot tears tracked down my cheeks. 

And, the idea I had of the person attached to that cock was swept away. 

It took me a moment, but I finally found my voice:

“Hey. You fucking idiot,” I said. “That's... what you just did? It's illegal. A Class-A felony.”

I didn't know if it * was * a Class-A felony. 

I wasn't even sure what a Class-A felony actually was. 

I just knew that if I didn't know, you wouldn't know.

And, Class-A felony sure sounds scary, doesn't it?

I could see the tiny wheels in the mind of the person before me turn. 

“How... how did you think this would turn out?” I asked. 

“You'd... have to do what I say,” you said. “Or else -”

“Or else you'd display evidence of a crime that you've committed,” I finished for you. “Create more witnesses to testify against you. Good plan, jackass.”

I pulled down some toilet paper from the dispenser, started to wipe my hand clean as best as I could. 

The words came to me, faster, then.

“Was that live?” I asked.

You shook your head. 

“Unlock your phone,” I said. “Give it to me.”

“Or... or else what?” Your voice quivered. 

Sweat was on that thick brow for a whole other reason. 

I simply hold out my hand.

I don't know what convinced you: 

The big, scary words that would land you in a world of trouble? 

The realization you never thought this through?

Or, the fact that my hand, still moist with your cum, wasn't shaking. 

You dialed in your passcode and handed your phone over. 

I go immediately to the gallery to find the video. 

See a text message notification from one of your friends pop up. 

Asking if you've * done it yet, bro? *

A rage I'd never felt before burned up the sides of my face. 

Like flames.

You stood there, watching, as I deleted the video. 

Emptied the digital wastebin. 

And, as I stood up, I'd cycled through your menu to the factory reset for your phone. 

“Ok,” I said, pressing the right combination of buttons. “We're done.” 

For the first time in two years, I'd meant it.

You hold your hand out for your phone. 

I turn around and drop it in the toilet. 

You have just enough sense not to say anything. 

I push past you, to go to the sink. 

Wash my hands, my mouth with cold water. 

Kept you in the corner of my eye as you rushed into the stall to pull out your phone.

As you brushed past me to leave, I saw the rest of the school year play itself out:

You'd have enough sense to avoid me. 

Maybe even have enough sense to never, ever bring my name up in conversation with your boys. 

You'd fail this class, as you failed many others.

And, it wouldn't be my concern. 

You wouldn't be my concern.

Not anymore.

\---END---


End file.
